


Hope's End

by Fireback



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 09:18:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17077586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fireback/pseuds/Fireback
Summary: On a fallen world Imperial world of Welson's Landing, the shattered remnants of an Astra Militarum infantry company struggle to survive against the forces of Chaos as with mounting horror, they come to realize that they are the last Imperial fighting force on planet. Together they must find a way to hold out for eventual relief and reinforcement, or simply survive on a world that is slowly falling to the corruption of Chaos.





	Hope's End

**One**

 

Oran Camwell dropped to his belly, as the snap of a volley of autogun fire screamed overhead. On either side of him the rapid snap hiss of lasguns firing at full cyclic whined to life in response to the incoming fire. Somewhere down the line he heard a gurgled scream as someone from his patrol caught a round. Oran closed his eyes for one moment, fought to control his breath, then tucked the stock of his weapon into his shoulder. With the last reserves of his will power, he lifted himself up and scanned for targets. The enemy were coming at them from across the street. They bounded forward a pair at a time, the other covering while the other dashed between piles of ruined masonry and into shell craters. They wore a mix of black and gray coveralls with no ornamentation of any kind. Oran brought up sights of his lasgun up to his eye and held his breath. He spotted one of the enemy crouched behind a burned out ground car at the far end of enemy formation. The soldier carried an oversized autogun with a boxy hopper magazine, and had the weapon trained on their squad. With a deliberate, but constant, beat, the soldier fire burst after burst, sending rounds seeping across the street. He hit no one, but them constant beat of incoming fire had forced half of Oran’s comrades to keep their heads down. Oran switched the magnocular on his sights from basic to double magnification, as he did the details of the enemy soldier lept out at him. Like all of the enemy their skin varied from milky white to ash grey, this man was on the lighter end of the spectrum. Like all of them this man had large, unblinking, black eyes and no body hair to speak of. Aside from these details they looked like ordinary men. Oran let himself exhale, steadied his shot, and squeezed the trigger as his sight bead passed over the soldier's head. There was no recoil from a lasgun, only the snap hiss of vaporizing air and the sound of flash capacitor dumping all of its energy into the focusing array. Oran's shot found its mark. The las beam explosively evaporated a channel through his target’s head. The soldier crumpled behind the ground car, trailing a steam from the ghastly wound as he fell out of sight.

“They are falling back, keep the pressure on them.”

Oran looked over his shoulder to the source of the voice. Captain Marion Fougle, of the Third Company,  Eighty Third Fusilier Regiment of the Garanate. She moved down the line at a crouch, the stock of a captured shotgun tucked into her shoulder. As she neared Oran's position she dropped into a crouch and fired. Oran looked forward just in time to see an enemy soldier that was almost on his position get clipped by the blast. Half of the soldier’s chest exploded with a puff of atomised blood, and the force of the blast caused him to pirouette on the spot as he toppled over, his bayoneted autogun clattering to the ground.

Marion fixed him with a furious gaze for a moment as she racked her shotgun.

“Keep firing, you useless peasant!” she snarled.

Oran felt a hot flush of guilt as he swung his gaze back towards the enemy and fired off a few shots at random. As he heard the the Captain move away he stopped firing and again scanned for targets. The last few of the enemy had pulled back to a shrine at the far end of the street and were putting out some desultory covering fire as the last of their fellows fell back. The shrine’s Aquila had been defaced with almost surgical precision, the traitors had used a series of demolition charges to neatly reduced it to nothing more than a jagged stone chunk. The traitors had then gone about their grim work on the walls outer walls of the shrine, painting swirling patterns of blue, white and purple in a pattern that seemed the change and animate as one looked at it from a variety of perspectives. Oran couldn’t help but let his eyes get drawn to the patterns, and it took a conscious thought to snap himself away from them, yet the patterns would always draw him back...

Oran grimaced and sighted one of the retreating enemy soldiers, with barely a thought he fired. The soldier took the shot in the leg as he dashed from the bed of a ruined fountain to an alleyway, he collapsed in the middle of the street. Over the roar of gunfire Oran made out a muted yelp of agony from his target. That yelp was cut short as a fusillade of las fire from multiple shooters ripped the soldier apart.

As the soldier died, the remaining live enemy faded into the ruins, and silence returned to the street.

“Clear,” one his his squad mates called from down the line.

A few other called out the same, a few more rose from cover and scanned the terrain.

“Clear,” Oran whispered as he rose up.

Marion stepped forward, slung her shotgun, and looked around at her men.

“Oran, Peratz, Michene, and Durrat. You are on perimeter security. Everyone else, roll in and grab what you can off the traitors. Ammunition, rations, water, anything that will keep us going. You have five minutes before we pull out.”

Oran glanced at Peratz and gestured forward, Peratz nodded and began to advance with his lasgun held at the ready. Oran followed close by with his own weapon at the ready. Off to his left, his comrades had reached the first corpse and had begun looting.

 

Five months since the Great Rift has opened, Oran had been a poacher back then, a poacher indentured for life on a prison farm for the crime killing a wild boar on the lands of the Duke Elias Tarar.. Oran didn’t understand much of the wider Imperium at the time, only the vague notion that the vast quantities of food their world produced helped feed approximately one thirteenth of the sector. Entire continents given way to industrial scale farming with what little wild land remained aggressively hoarded by the nobility for their exclusive use.

Oran had watched the great rift unfurl across the night sky over a period of weeks, after a long day in the field, before everyone else retired to their barracks for the night, he watched as it slowly crept across the night sky, gradually filling most of it. At the time he didn’t understand what was happening, nobody did. Oran saw patterns in the void, swirling currents and eddies came to form faces, fantastic beasts, and symbols of which he had not seen, but could only describe with a lingering dread. Others that looked at the night sky for too long began to go mad. Those unfortunate souls were quickly hustled away by agents of the Imperial Governor. It was claimed that they were being treated for mass hysteria, but Oran felt deep down that this was something far more profound than simple human frailty, though he had no language to describe it, and wouldn’t want to either for fear of attracting the attention of the the priests. Nothing good ever came of questioning the world, his father and mother learned that the hard way.

A month after the Great Rift had formed, the first proclamation came out. One in ten able bodied men and women that currently laboured in agriculture would hereby be inducted into the ranks of the Astra Militarum to serve in the name of our most glorious Emperor. 

Oran, at the time had seen a way to escape his bondage, volunteered when conscription parties visited the prison farms. He, and half a dozen other men and women were selected, loaded into the back of a cargo carrier and taken away. After a week of travelling by road, staying in route houses by night, he found himself in one of Garanate’s few spaceports.

“Better leaving forever than staying a slave down there any longer.” Oran had told himself as the shuttle carried him out of the gravity well he was born in, and to a waiting starship. If he had known then what he knew now, a life of petty servitude than the horrors of the front lines would have been preferable.

 

“Oran!” Peratz hissed.

Oran was jolted back to reality. He looked up at Peratz.

Peratz gestured down a nearby alley way.

“I heard movement,” he whispered.

Oran nodded and turned to the rest of his comrades. With a slight effort he forced a bird call from the back of his throat. As they looked at him, Marion included, he made the hand signal for “enemy”, then pointed down the alley. As he did so his comrades dropped low into the rubble, finding cover where they could. Marion gestured for a few others to follow her and trotted over Oran.

“Peratz heard movement back there. No visual.” He said as she dropped into cover next to him.

“You two go ahead, I'll follow with backup.” Marion replied.

Oran nodded, while Marion unholstered her plasma pistol and unsheathed her sword from across her back. Oran found himself staring at the blade for a moment. It was inlaid with thousands of tiny channels, forming an interlocking, weaving pattern running right up to its tip. As Marion thumbed on the power switch for the blade, there was a brief blue glow that ran through the channels from the hilt to the tip, then just as quickly faded.

Orand stood up and gestured for Peratz to follow. As he moved forward he reached into his belt kit and produced a small torch.

“There, that drainage pipe.” Peratz said.

Orand switched on the torch and look inside.

“See anything?” Peratz whispered.

“Quiet.” Oran hissed as he began to advance down the pipe, holding his lasgun forward with one hand and holding the torch in the other.

The smells of damp and death were strong. Further down, he could hear the sound of running water. Then just as suddenly there was the scuff of metal on plascrete, then the sound of a snarl.

Oran recoiled for a moment, but held his ground.

He stepped forward again, and raised the torch. The source of the noise, a starving canine came into view. It whined in fear and skittered away.

“Emperor save me, just an animal.”

As Oran was about to turn around he heard the creak of metal again.

“Garanate... wait...” a strained, but strangely booming voice came out of the darkness.

Oran raised his lasgun, and pointed at the dark.

“Whoever is down there, I'm not in the mood for this kack. Identify yourself now or I start shooting.”

“I...” the voice came again, then trailed off.

“This is a trap Oran, they'll kill us down here.” Peratz hissed.

“Help...” the voice came again.

Oran felt something come over him, a strange suicidal bravery. If this is a trap, then better to die now and be spared getting hunted down over the coming weeks and months. Slowly, he advanced, his weapon held ready. As he rounded a corner, he focused his torch at the origin of the voice and made ready to fire.

He gasped as someone large came into view, it was larger than a man, clad in scarlet red armour. A man's head was visible at the top, the face smeared with blood and dirt. Even beneath the grime. In spite of this, the man had a set of statuesque features, made all the more handsome by short and relatively neat blonde hair.

There was no mistaking the Imperial Aquila in bronze on the chestplate on the armour.

Oran locked eyes with the man. The gaze betrayed nothing, only a blank, grim stare. The man may as well have been a statue.

“Ca.... Captain. We've got someone down here.” Oran called out.

The man nodded, closed his eyes, then slumped forward.

 

“Astartes, still on planet?” Oran asked as Marion knelt in front of the unconscious warrior. 

“Apparently, Peratz, go and find the medicae, and tell Sergeant Rollad to set finish up scavenging, then prepare defensive positions.” Marion said as she studied the face and features of the humanoid giant.

Peratz muttered an acknowledgement, then turned about and saw to his duties.

“Those traitors bumped into us by chance, they were looking for you.” Marion said as she stared at the Astartes.

“Oran, this is humanity's wrath, personified. The armoured fist of the Emperor of Mankind. This one however, is a little bit spent. Still alive by the looks of him, though how can you tell with something that differs so much from the baseline human.”

“A mutant, ma'am?”

Marion thought for a moment, then shrugged.

“I'm not sure, to be honest. Though I'm sure that this man's life may well be worth more than all of us. Maybe more than the entire regiment.”

Oran and Marion turned around as they heard footfalls coming up fast. It was Donovan, their remaining medicae.

“Do what you can,” Marion ordered as she gestured to the crumpled Astartes.

Donovan knelt down in front of the Astartes, pulled his his diagnosis cogitator and placed a probe on the neck.

“Internal injuries, several blunt trauma tentatively. It looks like he survived direct hits from bolter rounds, ma'am. I'll have a full bio-scan in a moment.”

Donovan detached a small needle probe and after some effort, worked it into the neck. “He's been poisoned, looks like one of the traitor's tipped blades. Ma'am, if he was a regular man the dose he received would've been enough to kill him ten times over. Right now he is in pain, passing in and out of consciousness, but he'll recover given time. But I've never seen a man like this in my life, so I don't really know what to expect.”

“Can you get him up and moving?”

“I can try a stim, but it looks like his system is already loaded with a cocktail of enhancers. I honestly doubt anything I give him could be better than what he already has in his system, somehow. Maybe the armour has its own automedicae?”

“Maybe try several stims?”

“Even if it kills him?”

Marion sighed.

“Donovan, you said yourself he is currently processing enough toxins to kill a normal man. What are the odds of and overdose of stims killing him?”

“Not sure, though for a man like this it would take a lot.”

“Now, what are the odds of the traitors sending out a patrol to flush us out while we wait for our friend to recover on his own?”

“Certain,” Donovan replied.

“Then you understand what our only option is. Dose him, that is an order.”

Donovan grimaced for a moment, then reached into his medicae unit and produced three stim hypos.

“Sorry if this ends you, big man.” Donovan said as he pushed the first stim in and pressed the plunger down.

The man shuddered for a moment, then stopped, only a faint rasping breath was audible.

“Still kicking, okay. Going for number two...” Donovan said as he took another stim out and uncapped the needle.

As Donovan made ready to insert the needle, the Astarte's eyes flashed open. He locked eyes with Donovan. The man raised one armoured gauntlet and took a firm grip of Donovan's arm with a speed that should not be possible for man of his size, and wearing armour that rivals a small vehicle for tonnage.

Donovan squealed and tried to struggle free, but the Astartes took a firm grip of his other arm, locking him in place.

“Garanate Fusiliers?” the Astarte's croaked.

“Yes, that we are. Please let my medicae go.” Marion asked.

The Astartes fixed his gaze on Marion, then did as he was asked.

Donovan scrambled back, leaving his medicae cogitator attached to his patient.

“How did you know of us? More importantly how did you find us?”

“Vox traffic, both theirs and yours. You were tying up a portion of their rear guard with your hit and run attacks. All of my brothers have been slain, as far as I know. The forces of the Imperium are in full retreat on this world.”

Oran gasped and made the sign of the aquila. Marion ignored him and continued to focus on the Astarte.

“What of Warmaster Thaig and his command?”

“Destroyed during the siege of hive Taratine. The heretics used an atomic barrage to break the defences. The following assault destroyed all those that could still fight. The last Imperial vox traffic I picked up was a call for a planetary retreat by a few remaining fleet officers. That was just under a week ago.”

Marion leaned back and let this sink in.

“Thank you, now why did you seek us out?”

“You are still fighting. Most of the remaining Imperial troops have been wiped out or have gone into hiding. I need men if I'm going to wage war against the traitors.”

Marion cocked an eyebrow at the eight foot tall demi-human.

“Are you presuming to assume my command?”

The Astartes considered this for a moment.

“I have no interest in taking your command. My goal is to continue to fight the enemies of Mankind, and ensure that others that have the same duty do the same.”

Marion snorted back a laugh.

“Well then Astartes looks like we've found each other. Do you have name?”

“Brother Leon”

“Leon...”

“Just Leon.”

“I see.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment.

“Can you walk?”

Leon nodded, then gestured to Donovan.

“Medicae, remove your instruments. The traitors know I am here, and will respond shortly.”

 

Oran, Marion, Peratz, Donovan, and Leon emerged into the daylight. Oran blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. For a second he stared at Leon as he regarded his surroundings. The man's expression was exactly the same as it was when he found him, no emotion, not even his eyes betrayed a hint of what he was feeling.

“Gunship!” called a Garanate from somewhere overhead. In the distance the Orand could hear the whine of vectored engines growing louder and louder.

“Inconvenient” muttered Marion as she switched on her vox headset.

“This is Fougle, squads one and four withdraw to rally point Primus. Weapon teams, clear to engage.”

Marion gestured to follow.

“If they are spending a Gunship on us armoured vehicles can't be far behind, let's move.” Marion said.

Leon checked the action of his oversized bolter with a quick motion, then began to follow Marion. Oran fell into step beside Leon as they charged down the alley and emerged back into the street. The Astarte’s footfalls sounded like a stamp press running at a breakneck pace, yet the man moved with a much fluidity as any of them. Overhead, the gunship was bearing down on them. It had an insectile look to it, with a large, bulbous canopy with a large autocannon slung under the aircraft’s chin. From a few positions to their south, a volley of missile streaked up to meet it. The gunship jinked hard to the right, the first missile slashed past by a metre, the second found its mark. It detonated on one of the engine pods, causing the entire craft to veer hard to the right, but it remained airborne.

“Take cover!” Leon bellowed. 

Oran threw himself into a shell hole and curled up into a ball. The Gunship screamed overhead, trailing smoke but it's autocannon roared. In the distance the upper levels of a distant hab block collapsed under the weight of the barrage. Oran lay still for a moment, even as the sound of engines receded into the distance. Without warning an armoured first engulfed his arm in a vice like grip and yanked him to his feet. Oran yelp in surprise as recovered his balance. Marion picked herself up as well, and engaged her vox set.

“Zelman, if you and your team managed to survive that. I'm calling for the full withdrawal to rally point Primus. Emperor Protect you. Come on, people. We don't want to be in the open if it makes another pass.”

They ran south for five minutes, hopping over piles of debris, through broken windows and past burned out vehicles. The gunship didn't return, instead the new sounds of petrochemical engines in the distance began to get louder and louder.

“Don't think about it.” Marion called as if she could sense Oran's worries.

Even in his state, and wearing his armour, Leon set the pace for everyone. Frequently, he stopped and covered everyone else as they struggled, panting and gasping for breath to catch up. Eventually, they arrived at the partially collapsed entrance to a metro station. A pair of Garanate soldiers were crouched in the rubble nearby. As they ran past Marion broke off to talk to the closest.

“Did Zelman make it?”

“No sign of him, or any of his team.” one of the sentries responded.

“Damn, we're the last ones out then. This place will be crawling within minutes.”

They clambered through the gaps in the rubble and ran down the stairs. The base of the stairs opened out onto a metro platform, a train sat by the platform, lifeless and covered with a layer of concrete dust from a partial collapse of the overhead tunnel. In every scrap of cover, Garanate guardsmen covered every approach, their lasguns held ready, and torches illuminating every approach.

Marion stepped forward and regarded the her troops.

“We are moving out, people. First squad, you have point, third is rear guard. The rest of you fall in with me, patrol order.”


End file.
